


Poison Ivy Took an Axe

by PoisonKisses



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham City Sirens (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: ...and gave the Joker 40 whacks...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because there is never enough Joker dying fiction out there.

The spray on her face was warm. A fine mist of little droplets hitting her with each swing. It smelled raw to her, like fresh hamburger meat.

He was long since past screaming--that had gone on until his cries grew hoarse. Now he could only manage a weird, high-pitched keening, or a wet grunt when she hit his torso, compressed his perforated lungs. She'd often thought he'd laugh--show his legendary immunity to fear and pain, but surprisingly, he'd wept. He'd begged for his life. There were no 'Pammies' or 'Reds,' he'd called her Ivy. 

"Please, Ivy, I'll never touch her again, I swear it!"

That was the last coherent thing he'd said. Slamming the fireman's axe into his mouth, shattering his yellow teeth, breaking his jaw saw to that. He'd tried crawling away, and sheering off his fingers, leaving him with bleeding stumps, seeing him clutch his ruined hand to his chest, horror dawning in his eyes. He thought himself invincible, immortal. Some things you can't heal from.

The irony was, Ivy knew how to swing an axe. She didn't grip it 'like a girl' and make ineffectual chops. One hand down near the base, the other near the head. Once in motion the second hand dropping to join the first, getting all of her weight and considerable strength (people didn't realize how strong she was, thinking her a weak femme-fatale, but Ivy could give Bane a run for his money, and that's when she WASN'T channeling the power of a Great Sequoya) behind the blow. 

The axe was blunt. The head rusty. It had hung in this old warehouse for decades, never needed. Not until tonight. Not until they'd caught up with him. She could have killed him instantly with her powers--squashed him with vines, poisoned him with a wave of her hand, made him explode from internal flora rapidly growing in his guts.

No, this had to be more personal, and the blunt axe head meant it took multiple swings to cut. It broke rather than sliced. 

She kicked his right hand and part of the forearm out of her way with a bare foot, circling him as he lay, mouth open, gasping for air. He'd held that up to block a swing and lost it.

She wished she'd thought to have someone record this. His idiot followers needed to see their idol weeping and terrified. Behind all the makeup and abuse he really was just a sad, pathetic little edgelord dressing up to try and scare the normals. He'd never had the brains to understand that ultimately, he was a poser. There were real freaks out, and they held him in contempt.

'King of Gotham.'

HA.

She brought the axe down his majesty's back, crunching through his lower lumbars, severing his spinal cord, and his legs instantly stopped working--not that they were working that well anyway--but they became motionless lumps of meat. His eye was wild in its socket as she paused to fist his greasy hair and flip him over onto his back. He was trying to speak again, mouth working around the blood fountaining out of its ruined facade.

"Pl-pl--pl-"

"What's that? Please? Did Harley say please earlier tonight?" She brought the axe down in his guts, spraying blood and shit everywhere--warm drops she was thankful she avoided. He managed a 'hrk' sound. "Here's the irony. She'll recover. She'll grow back, stronger than ever, because she has us. She will be remembered long after you're gone, and you?"

Ivy used the axe to tilt his head to look at her.

"You'll be a footnote in HER story."

For a long moment he stared at her, something like rage in his clouded eye (the other was gone, one of her blows had sheared it out.)

Then she removed his head with a precise swing.

She dropped the axe and turned to Selina, who was watching, holding her heels. Selina's eyes were puffy, the mascara running.

Normally Selina would have had a crack: you got a little something on your dress, Ives, or jeeze, you look like Carrie, Ives.

She just wordlessly handed her the sexy shoes she'd been wearing to go clubbing in, the ones she'd had on when they'd gotten the call--

Batman's gruff voice, unmodulated. She could hear the worry, the exhaustion in it.

"Pamela, I'm sorry. Harley's in the ER. Joker fooled her into using a suicide bomb. She's in surgery, I don't know..."

Batman cared. He cared about Harley to hover while she was being operated on. He cared about her enough to call, personally, to let her know.

"Hospital?" Ivy asked. Selina nodded.

She refused to allow Harley to die tonight.


	2. No More Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love a happy ending?

Harley was still wobbly.

That was why Selina and Ivy chose to wear flats tonight. Harley was nowhere near ready for heels, even small ones. Ivy'd carefully reconstructed Harley's right leg--the blast had shredded every muscle and tendon in it--but it was new and still unfamiliar. Last week, she'd finally gotten off the cane, and she was anxious to get out and have some fun. Ivy couldn't blame her.

She was trying to apply mascara, but she was right handed and her hand was still shaky. It was getting better, but Harley was never patient, and the therapy was taking time. Ivy could see her getting frustrated, so after her third try and subsequent series of F bombs, Ivy slipped over and said quietly, "Hey, you ok?"

Harley was angry, tears threatening to start. "I can't get it to work, Red. When's it gonna stop shakin'?" She handed the little tube over, and Ivy gently took from her. Harley tilted her head back, and carefully Ivy began to stroke the little brush through the other girl's pale lashes.

"It takes time, Harley. Even I don't work miracles."

That wasn't entirely true.

Harley should have been dead. Ivy's Lazarus formula had worked almost like magic, regrowing tissue, reconstructing bone, healing the horrific burns. It had jumpstarted and accelerated a healing process that should have taken years. The chronic pain was gone, the melted flesh was replaced with healthy, tender new tissue, and the bones were stronger than before. It was taking time, and now, exactly a year from the horrific bomb that _filth_ had tricked Harley into using, she was almost back to normal--well, as normal as Harley got.

Makeup applied, Harley jumped up, excited. The formula had rewritten much of her genetic damage, her skin back to a normal, if a little pale, human shade. There were scars, still, dozens of lines of lighter colored epidermis criss crossing the right side of her body. Her right breast had been obliterated, massive sections of her right flank burned down to the muscle, but Ivy'd rebuilt all that, and Harley'd joked "Hey, I'da blown myself up years ago if I knew I'd get new tits outta it!"

She was self conscious of the scars, the way they ran up and down her otherwise bare arm and leg. Ivy was working on healing them, but until then, she'd spent the afternoon carefully painting Henna designs over them, so now Harley looked exotic--sensually curling and crawling vines travelling up and down her body, like Ivy had painted herself right onto her.

"How do I look?" She was smiling, light hearted, but there was anxiety there. Doubt. Ivy smiled, trying to hide her disquiet with wickedness.

"I don't know if I want to go dancing now. Maybe we'll just stay home and I'll fuck you." Ivy never cursed, was never crude, and so it had the desired effect on Harley, who leaped into a hug.

Ivy held her.

"Are you two kiddos ready?" Selina sauntered in, looking fabulous and ready to party in a little black mini. Ivy's midriff baring 'pagan chic' dress (as Selina called it, "Seriously, Ivy, you look like you're ready to make a Celtic folk music video or, I don't know, hex the cattle in a Puritan village on Samhain") was the polar opposite of simple haute couture. 

It didn't matter, this was Harley's night, and that was what counted.

Bruce was waiting for them in the Jag. They piled in. The secret was out, they knew. _He_ was gone, and the old paradigm had shifted. Bruce glanced at Harley in the mirror, a smile threatening to break out on his face.

"You look great, Harley."

"Thanks Mistah Wayne!" she piped up. "Now, stop yackin' and start drivin'! I gotta cut me a rug!" He laughed and pulled out. Excited, Harley stared out the window, the passing lights illuminating her face in short little flashes. Ivy watched her for a while. Harley turned and caught her eye.

"You ok, Red? Ya look like yer 'bout ta sneeze or sumpin'."

"No, just admiring the view," she shot back with her most seductive and mischievous smirk. Harley laughed.

"Had me worried fer a sec."

"No worries, sweet pea. Not anymore."


End file.
